The Pricking of His Thumbs
by dog.spartacus
Summary: Tag for 2x5, "The Weeping Lady." Crane's memory and imagination get the better of him. (Stirrings of Ichabbie)


References and spoilers: "Weeping Lady" (2x5)

A/N: This is my very first story for this fandom. Something in Ichabod's reaction to Hawley in the library struck me and needed to be pursued. Here it is. All constructive comments welcome. Thanks for giving it a shot.

Disclaimer: These characters are _so_ not mine.

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><p>"The Pricking of His Thumbs"<p>

He could not get the image out of his head, of the Lieutenant, of _Abbie_, drowned, on the stone tile floor of the public library. He was so sure in that moment that she was gone. And then, suddenly: Hawley. Hawley pushing him out of the way, Hawley over her, touching her, bending to her. Hawley with his hands, with his mouth on...

_What are you waiting for? Give her mouth-to-mouth, man!_ The words rattled around in his mind, too—that was the trouble with an eidetic memory, wasn't it? Everything in vivid detail. On a constant loop.

It was shameful enough that he hadn't been able to save her—that he had managed to pull her out of the conjured water, from the clutches of the weeping lady, only to lose her on land—but to have Hawley swoop in and do what Crane couldn't? To do what Crane thought _impossible_? It was embarrassing. Hawley had been grandstanding since they met, and Crane's confidence, though he would never admit it to anyone, was a little shaken. For the first time in his life, Ichabod Crane couldn't be sure that he was superior. Doubt had crept in. But could he afford to doubt himself, knowing the gravity of the battle they had yet to face? And what would it do to Abbie's confidence in him?

Abbie.

She was alive. He should be relieved, he should be thankful, he should be jubilant! Instead, he felt guilty. He should have saved her. That is: _he_ should have saved her. Not Hawley. And immediately afterwards, in the moment when he should have felt the most relief, Crane was brimming instead with jealousy, anger, and disdain. Hawley saved the life of one of two people Crane cared for most deeply: and Crane resented him for doing exactly that. How twisted was that?

But it should have been Crane. He should have saved her. And he didn't.

Now, he must suffer the indignity of the memory—of Hawley with his hands on her. With his _mouth_ on her. Bringing her back to life with his own body... Crane has heard in fairy tales and folklore of the power of a kiss, but this was...

He won't allow himself to dwell on the thought. It's bad enough that he has to re-envision the act.

It has been a few days, and neither he nor the Lieutenant have talked about it. They don't seem to talk about their trials much, in fact; they rarely speak of Purgatory or the pine box or any of the horrors they have seen together. Perhaps because they know that things are only getting worse. And talking about it, about their feelings and insecurities and psychological scars, won't change much in terms of the apocalypse. It'll still come. They'll still have to fight.

Now, though, in the stillness of night, Ichabod is plagued by the memory from the library. He hates Hawley's presence in his mind, and he briefly wonders how the moment could have been different. What if he _had_ saved the Lieutenant? He lets the idle thought slip in: to substitute himself for Hawley. And then they're _his_ hands. And then it's _his_ mouth. And then... oh.

In the wake of Katrina's revelation, the new imagery stirs Ichabod in unexpected ways. He wrestles with the emotion all night.

By morning, he's resolved: more than he should have saved the Lieutenant, Crane should have _been able_ to save her. This is the argument he will make if anyone questions him. It's no longer about Hawley, about feeling inferior—and, as long as Crane plays it right, no one will ever know that it has anything to do with a growing curiosity he now holds about his partner.

Abbie arrives just before eight, as usual. Ichabod already has her coffee prepared, and he walks it swiftly to the table just as she closes the front door.

"Good morning, Lieutenant!" he tosses cheerfully, eager to make his proposition to her.

"_Someone's_ already had their coffee," Abbie mumbles, and Ichabod realizes that his initial tone was absolutely wrong for the conversation he had planned. He backpedals laboriously, trying to dial it down, trying to ooze excessive casualness. He tries to nonchalantly lean on something so the following conversation does not seem premeditated. First he tries the mantle, then a chair, then the sofa. He loses balance and repositions himself twice. Nothing is quite right.

If Abbie notices his awkward change in demeanor, she says nothing. She sips her coffee and reads over some notes he had left on the table from the night before.

Suddenly, Hawley's voice is in his head again: _What are you waiting for?! _Only now its meaning has evolved.

"Lieutenant," he says hesitatingly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.

"Mm?" is all he gets, her eyes trained on a sketch in his notebook, her lips pressed against that of her mug. And perhaps it'll be easier if she's not looking at him after all.

"I've been thinking about Mr. Hawley's reanimation practices..." he says carefully.

She scoffs and glances at him. "You mean CPR?"

"Er, yes. I was thinking: I should like to acquaint myself with those, erm, techniques." He waits with baited breath to see how she'll react.

She laughs, a short chuckle through her nose, and quirks an eyebrow at him. "You wanna learn CPR?"

He takes a small step forward, ready to make his argument. "I just feel it would benefit me in my role as a Witness. Don't you agree?" he begins. He doesn't give her a chance to respond before continuing: "Suppose some other tragedy like the one last week were to befall you in our future, and Mr. Hawley weren't at our immediate disposal to gallantly revive you for me? What would you have me do, lose the second Witness even as I looked on, merely because I hadn't trained and prepared for the possibility?"

She laughs again. "Whoa, down boy," she jokes. "You don't have to convince me. You wanna do it, we'll do it," she says with a shrug.

He tries to ignore whatever it was inside of him that leapt at her words as he nervously runs his fingers through his hair. "Well then!" he huffs. It was far easier to convince her than he expected. What on earth could that mean? Trying to keep his voice and hand steady, he gestures to the sofa. "You may... lie down there," he says. "The floor is a bit dusty."

Suddenly she drops her mug to the table, and her jaw hangs open in confusion. "Not with me, Crane! They've got classes for that! We'll sign you up for one today."

"Yes of course!" he barks breathlessly, hoping she can't see the embarrassment that has suddenly flushed his face. "I knew that," he mutters quietly.

She rolls her eyes and returns to the notes, apparently oblivious.

He watches her silently a few moments more, studying her profile, wondering just how long he'll have to remember and relive this fleeting sinking feeling of disappointment and chagrin.


End file.
